


Role-playing Your Old Enemy

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chair Sex, Community: hermione_smut, Crossdressing, Drunk Sex, F/M, Femdom, HP: EWE, Humor, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Post-War, Roleplay, Vaginal Fingering, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione and Draco’s constant fighting escalates to the point where their boss at the Ministry has to step in. As punishment, they’re ordered to do a role-playing exercise—one (work) week of behaving like they think the other acts, in all situations. The results aren’t entirely what the boss had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role-playing Your Old Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Written from a prompt at hermione_smut on Livejournal. I did mess with the prompt a bit in that, while I found it plausible Draco would be egotistical enough to be turned on by Hermione-as-him, I thought she would be turned on by the freedom of acting like an arse. ;) This version is slightly revised, mostly for grammar but also for one glaring (to me!) content error near the end.
> 
> This is a Dramione story in the end. Other relationships listed are mentioned and dealt with but are not central.

Draco watched Granger read the magical contract spread out before her with the same concentration she’d likely given her make-up N.E.W.T.S. And every other bloody thing with _words_.

 

Good. If she signed it, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, it was likely safe for him to sign as well. As safe as signing away a week of his life could possibly be, at any rate.

 

This was all her fault, as usual.

 

She put quill to paper, scrawled her big, loopy signature. Once finished, she dropped the quill, nodded to their boss, and spared Draco nary a glance as she headed for the door, clipping his shoulder in the process. Not one word of apology. Not one word of insult, either.

 

She was failing at this already. 

 

Draco sneered and picked up the quill.

* * *

**Day One**

 

“But thash _com-lely_ … _men-al_ ,” Ron said around a mouthful of chips, looking more simultaneously bewildered and horrified than when he’d spit slugs second year.

 

Hermione sighed, grateful for Ron’s sympathy, yet apologetic for what she was about to say. At least it wouldn’t be _too_ far off from how she herself might respond. “Ron, do refrain from talking when your face is stuffed. It’s repellent.”

 

Ron’s brows knitted, and, beside him, Harry smiled. “Not bad, Hermione, but I’m pretty sure Malfoy would have said something about Ron’s family.”

 

“Oh, right, yeah,” Ron grinned. “Good try, Hermione.”

 

She smiled weakly back at them, glad that at least the contract valued intent over accuracy. Still, she had to do better.

 

Abruptly, her smile vanished, replaced by a look that suggested she’d just tasted something rotten. “Don’t patronize me! Some friends you are. Do you really think this is helping me? This week is going to be so miserable.” Folding her arms across her chest, she slouched back into the pub’s booth, prepared to sulk through the rest of lunch.

 

Ron and Harry looked at one another. It had been a much better performance. A much better “Malfoy.” 

 

As if running into the real one five days a week at the Ministry wasn’t enough. As if hearing Hermione complain about him just as often wasn’t equally as trying.

 

Ron shoved another handful of chips into his mouth and chewed silently.

* * *

Draco unclenched his jaw for perhaps the fifth time that day and rubbed the sore muscles on either side of his face. If this bloody exercise in “team-building” caused him injury or otherwise damaged his health, so help him…no job was worth this sort of torment.

 

Except this one truly was, Draco reminded himself.

 

At war’s end, the Malfoys had had to do much to repair their family name. Obtaining a job at the Ministry as an Obliviator had gone a long way toward restoring public trust, thereby assuring Draco’s marriage prospects at the same time.

 

Now Hermione bloody Granger stood in the way of his continued success. 

 

He’d been surprised to find her working in such a department, assuming she’d be freeing house-elves or securing Muggleborn rights or some such.

 

Just his luck.

 

If he expected her to have changed any from their time at Hogwarts—which he hadn’t, really—to be less of an obnoxious know-it-all, a self-righteous bossypants…

 

Draco consciously relaxed his jaw yet again.

 

Anyway, if he’d expected that in the first place, he’d have been sorely disappointed. As it was, he found her the same. He found _them_ the same, which is to say constantly at odds, except he now knew better than to use the M-word (not that he felt compelled to use it anymore, full stop), and there were no teachers taking house points every time they argued, slammed office doors, sent howlers, or otherwise disrupted their working environment.

 

Instead, there was a boss, Lindsay Fellowes, demanding they learn to get along or be sacked. The both of them. 

 

To put a stop to the bickering, glaring, and odd bout of mutually enforced “silent treatment” and to ensure appropriate levels of cooperation and productivity, Fellowes had instituted a week-long “role-playing exercise” during which time he and Granger had to behave as they thought the other would in all interactions, professional and personal. Apparently this was supposed to make them more empathetic toward one another, to spend a week in one another’s shoes so that they’d _get along_.

 

Draco had never heard a more rubbish idea in his life. But the boss wanted what the boss wanted, and the contract he and Granger had signed guaranteed they’d both make the effort…or lose their jobs.

 

Overachiever that Granger was, he’d no doubt she’d do her best. As desperate and determined to keep his job as Draco was, he would too. Not to mention, he’d be _Avada_ ’d if he let her think he wasn’t up to the challenge. She was such an easy mark, so bleeding-heart-on-her-sleeve and obvious. The exercise would be annoying for him, to be sure, especially to his friends and family, but he knew it would be far harder for her to mimic him and his Slytherin subtleties and cruelties than the other way around.

 

There was undoubtedly a certain pleasure in the idea of Granger lying to, sneering at, and insulting her loved ones.

 

“Draco, you’re late,” he heard his father call as he entered the dining room.

 

“Sorry, Father,” he said, taking his place near his mother at the long table. Surely Granger would apologize in this situation; she was typically an obnoxiously polite, submissive-to-authority type.

 

“Did work keep you? That Granger girl again? I do hope you didn’t make a fuss. How many times do I have to remind you it is not in your best interest to remain enemies with such a prominent war heroine?”

 

Draco swallowed. Ordinarily he’d protest that Granger’s pretentions made it impossible not to respond in kind, that he was the victim in the situation. 

 

What would Granger say? What _did_ Granger think of their situation, beyond (erroneously) thinking him equally to blame?

 

He cleared his throat, noting the look of impatient expectation on his father’s face. “No, you’re right, Father, it isn’t in my best interests. I’m afraid my temper gets the best of me, and for whatever reason, Granger brings it out the worst. However, my employer, Granger, and I are making efforts to rectify the situation between the two of us.” There, that was sufficiently wordy and responsible-sounding.

 

His father raised a brow. “Your employer? Your behavior has been bad enough to warrant reprimand? You told me the animosity was restricted to private conversations between yourself and Miss Granger. This is _exactly_ why I warned you to apologize from the first,” he finished in a huff, smacking his hand lightly but firmly on the table. Across from him, Draco’s mother brought her hands up to toy nervously with the strand of delicate pearls at her throat.

 

Draco didn’t bother to relax his jaw. He stared down at his plate of cold cuts, face warm. He had indeed lied about the Granger situation, but mostly because he didn’t want to worry his parents. After the war, his father’s health wasn’t what it used to be, physical or mental, and the last thing he needed to worry about (again) was his son’s employment.

 

“You did say that, Father,” he acknowledged, looking up to find his mother smiling encouragingly at him. He quashed the impulse to skirt the truth, to say that, technically, this was the first act of censure brought against him in the matter. Up till then, Fellowes had merely verbally chastised Granger and himself for their inability to be civilized with one another. 

 

Instead, he reached into his robe’s inner pocket and withdrew his copy of the contract, handing it to his father. “Rest assured I am cooperating fully with Granger per Ms. Fellowes’s orders and will more than make up for my mistakes. I know how important this position is for me. For us.” He raised his chin in what he hoped was a determined, confident manner rather than an impudent one and held his breath for his father’s response. 

 

To his surprise, it was his mother who spoke. “Very good, Draco. We know our family is ever-present in your mind, and I know it must be hard to set yourself aside when you’re a young man starting out.” 

 

Draco heard his father’s scoff but did not look away from his mother’s kind, steady gaze.

 

“Thank you, Mother. I will do this family proud. Granger and I, as you know, have never gotten along”— _and whose fault is that?_ he was surprised to find himself wondering, thinking of all the childhood lessons he’s learned about Mudbloods and “natural” inferiorities—“but that doesn’t mean I can’t work to be civil with her for the sake of my job and this family.”

 

His mother’s smile grew brighter, her cornflower blue eyes sparkling. It wasn’t often he saw her positively beaming like this, after the war especially. She looked at him as if seeing things in him she never had before, which she hadn’t and wasn’t.

 

She was seeing Granger.

* * *

After lunch with Ron and Harry, the rest of the day had been hell for Hermione.

 

Mostly.

 

There’d been an incident involving a rogue Snitch from a Chudley Cannons practice session that had somehow made its way into a Muggle school yard, dazzling and frightening the children, all of whom had to be Obliviated, as well as the adult minders. It might have been explained away had the blasted team Seeker not chased the bloody thing all the way to the school, diving into the midst of dozens of open-mouthed kids to finally snatch it out of the air.

 

Idiot.

 

It pained Hermione to brusquely yet efficiently set about Obliviating the exposed Muggles with her team where usually she’d spend some time comforting the poor, confused (though in some cases utterly delighted) children. _Waste of time_ , she could practically hear Malfoy grouse. So she didn’t bother. She had to admit, it saved at least half an hour, maybe more. No wonder Malfoy always made it back from assignments faster than she did from hers.

 

She did, however, take some measure of joy in berating the Cannons’ Seeker for his utterly dunderheaded Snitch chase. While Hermione herself had no problem pointing out others’ errors, as an adult she typically did so with their feelings in mind, focusing on how to improve future performance. 

 

Malfoy, she knew, did not share the same attitude.

 

“What was I supposed to do? Just let it zip off to Merlin-knew-where?” the Seeker, Barkley, asked when Hermione and her team had finished at the school and she had caught up with him back at the Cannons’ pitch.

 

“Obviously,” she confirmed dryly.

 

“Snitches cost money, you know.”

 

“Sending Obliviators on stupid errands when they could be doing important work costs more,” Hermione replied smartly. “Next time use your brain. It can’t be that out of practice.”

 

Barkley’s face reddened. “You don’t behave very proper for a war heroine. Maybe I ought to arrange to have your boyfriend’s _free_ season tickets revoked.”

 

“And maybe I’ll put the word out to your fangirls that you’ve got Brazilian Inflammata Pox on your most beloved bits.”

 

His mouth gaped. “But I don’t—”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugged, implication clear. She turned to leave, feeling strangely elated. She waited for the ensuing stab of guilt or remorse.

 

Neither came.

* * *

**Day Two**

 

As he headed for the restaurant table where Astoria Greengrass sat waiting for him, Draco cursed the wretched luck (and witch) that had prevented him from cancelling this long-prearranged date. Both he and his parents (once they’d read the contract) had thought it best if he beg off rather than risk alienating Astoria by acting like someone else, that someone being the tedious Hermione Granger. 

 

Just as he was penning the note informing Astoria of a sudden illness that would necessitate they reschedule (for no doubt Granger would see the sense in handling the situation thus), his mother owled to tell him she’d just got a letter from Mrs. Greengrass. It seemed the family was headed to the Continent in two days for an extended holiday, and both Draco’s mother and father deemed it more important to spend some (albeit potentially awkward and damaging) time with Astoria rather than let her go away having had only two dates. 

 

Astoria smiled as he approached, and Draco took her hand, squeezing it gently but lingeringly as he sat. “My apologies for being late,” he said sincerely. “There were…complications with nearly every assignment I was sent on today.” He sipped some water to stall and gauge her response, thinking how he himself would not normally elaborate on such matters to a date (family, friends, and established girlfriends were another story) but feeling almost certain Granger would not hesitate to offer every last detail.

 

_Then again,_ he thought, _perhaps she wouldn’t._ He’d noticed that, however aggravatingly verbose she was with him and other coworkers, when it came to the public she handled matters delicately and simply. He imagined it was possible she could be the same on a date. In fact, she was probably a shy little flower, especially after the dust-up with Weasley.

 

Thankfully, Astoria solved the problem for him by handing over the wine list. “Well, you’re here with me now. Put your wretched work day behind you and enjoy some wine.” She smiled, all white teeth and ruby lips, and Draco attempted to follow her advice, studying the wine list as she told him about her own day, which involved shopping for a wardrobe appropriate for her upcoming holiday…and a minor altercation with an ex-boyfriend.

 

Draco listened and drank an entire glass of wine while Astoria detailed both the dramatic tiff and the history of the relationship. She stopped only when the waiter came to take their orders, and while Draco felt secretly relieved that she was doing all the talking, thus making it easier not to have to think of what Granger would say, he couldn’t help but inwardly chafe at the idea of being made to withstand an hour’s worth of melodramatic whinging about his date’s ex. As it was, it was clear to him someone like Granger (i.e. a woman) would offer support in the form of nods and little “mhms” sprinkled throughout the “conversation.”

 

When their waiter came with the food, Astoria finally concluded the saga. “…which is why I’m so happy to be here with you, Draco. You’re so different. For instance,” she began, picking up her fork, “you must be the best listener of any man I’ve ever met.”

 

Draco sat up straighter in his chair, realizing she was actually addressing him, and smiled encouragingly. “It seems to me you needed listening to. I suppose that’s part of the problem in general today, isn’t it?” _What utter bollocks,_ he thought. _People deserve to be listened to when they’ve got something_ interesting _to say._

 

Astoria nodded vigorously. “I agree. We’re so alike, Draco. I had no idea! I wonder what else we have in common…”

 

As she began listing her favorite (and least favorite) books, places in Wizarding London, smells, colors, robe shops, and Merlin knew what else (Draco learned he needn’t _really_ listen, only occasionally nod and smile), he thought, _I don’t want to be anything like you._

* * *

“D’you really think this is a good idea?” Ron stood awkwardly near the sofa, hands in pockets.

 

“Why not?” Hermione asked, glancing around his flat. Once again, he hadn’t bothered to clean up for her in the slightest. “We always get together Tuesday nights. Though it would be nice if there weren’t bags of leftover takeaway stacked near the trash _and_ on the coffee table,” she added dryly.

 

Ron’s face grew pink in typical Ron fashion. “Sorry,” he mumbled, gathering the trash from the nearby table.

 

“Don’t bother now,” she sighed. “Why don’t we just head to the bedroom? That’s usually not so bad, and it’s why I’m here anyway, isn’t it?”

 

The pink spread to Ron’s ears and turned full-on red. “ _Hermione!_ ” he stage-whispered as if they weren’t in the privacy of his flat.

 

“What? If this friends-with-benefits thing isn’t working for you…” She turned to leave, only a little surprised at the ease with which she was ready to go back to the days of simply being friends with him. Their break-up had been drawn-out and painstaking enough, with input and commentary from not only all their friends and family but the press as well, as if the end of “Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger” meant the end of romance itself. She sincerely hoped Harry and Ginny’s relationship remained as solid as it was now; she wouldn’t wish such a fiasco on anyone. Not even Draco Malfoy.

 

“Hold on!” Ron caught her by the hand. “I didn’t say it’s not working for me. It’s just this whole you being Malfoy thing. It’s…awkward.”

 

Hermione paused and looked at their joined hands. She honestly hadn’t been trying that hard to be Malfoy. “Am I really behaving that differently right now? Your messy flat always drives me barmy.”

 

“Er, I know, but normally you go about tidying up and muttering something like, ‘Honestly, Ronald.’ You’re not always so…” he trailed off, scratching his head.

 

She pulled her hand out of his grasp. “So what, Ron? It sounds to me like you’re just upset I didn’t tidy up for you this time. I’m not your mum, you know.” She folded her arms across her chest.

 

His pale blue eyes went wide. “I know that, Hermione! And you know I’m not the word person you are. I meant to say you’re not usually so _blunt_ even if you are bossy. You’re not usually…Malfoy.”

 

Hermione huffed. Suddenly, she wanted to cry and had little idea why. She was grateful for the role-playing exercise’s boundaries at the moment, grateful for the knowledge that surely Draco Malfoy would not let his confused emotions get the better of him in this situation. Hippogriff attack, yes. Mission from Voldemort involving a threat to one’s self and one’s family, yes. But not the likes of Ronald Weasley and what amounted to a character assassination.

 

It could only be Ron, she knew. He was the only one around whom her skin would become so thin as to be transparent. Usually it was not something she minded; it’s what had made her feel so close to him and what kept them close, even as friends-and-a-bit-more. Other times, like now, she hated it.

 

In the awkward silence, she found herself wondering if Malfoy had someone like that.

 

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, she squared her shoulders. “You know it’s for work, Ron. I thought you’d be more understanding. But, as this doesn’t look like it’s going to be fun for either of us, I’ll leave.” Ron nodded dully, looking both apologetic and relieved.

 

As she opened the door to go, Hermione turned. “You’ve never exactly been a subtle person yourself, you know. And I like you just fine. When you’re not saying something stupid.” She closed the door behind her.

 

This time, the remorse came like a knife twisted in her gut, swift and sharp.

* * *

**Day Three**

 

The next morning, Draco watched as Hermione irritably waved off first one, then two members of her Obliviation team as they approached her with paperwork. A third got a sarcasm-laden tirade about how a lax job only led to more work for her in the end, as she’d be the one sent back to the scene. A thing, apparently, she was not a fan of. 

 

Strange. Draco’d always thought Granger enjoyed correcting people’s mistakes. Not that he ever made any, contrary to her personal opinion.

 

Across the room, for his own part, Draco quietly wrote his reports, which were taking twice as long as usual what with the extraneous detail he figured Granger included in hers. He couldn’t bring himself to mind, however; it distracted him from thinking about his maddening date with Astoria the night before. 

 

And his and Granger’s upcoming mid-week meeting with Fellowes.

 

“Malfoy, here’s my report on the incident in Cheshire. Sorry it’s late.” Parker, a member of his own team, held out the report to him delicately, face schooled in a wince as if Draco had just now kicked a puppy in front of him.

 

Draco breathed in deeply through his nose instead of stressing his jaw again or balling the papers on his desk and tossing them at Parker’s cowering form. The report had been due _last week_. Granger herself had given Draco hell about not being able to properly manage his team.

 

_What a joke_ , he thought, remembering her words to her own wayward Obliviator moments before. 

 

Smiling, he took the report from Parker’s shaky hand. “Thank you. Perhaps next time, if you find yourself struggling with a report, you could come to me for assistance.” 

 

_Fuck! Why did I say that?_ This fucking exercise was going to ruin the way Draco ran things long after it was over.

 

Parker looked more confused and frightened than relieved. “Th-thank you, Malfoy. My apologies, truly. Won’t let it happen again.” He scurried off, banging into a desk on his way. He couldn’t even scurry competently. 

 

Draco glanced down at the report and immediately spotted two spelling errors. Brilliant. If he were at liberty to be his own bloody self he’d call Parker back, point out what a total moron he was, and make him redo the report over his lunch hour. 

 

Before he could silently grumble over how utterly _stifling_ it was acting like Granger, the mail arrived in a flutter of owl wings. An envelope landed on his desk: elegant stationary with a “G” in calligraphy on its front. Draco’s jaw twitched painfully as he opened it and read the contents.

 

_Dear Draco,_

_Thank you so much for the lovely evening. I’d never been permitted to share so much with a boy before. I had been terribly excited about this holiday abroad with my family but now find myself reluctant to leave, knowing I’ll miss you._

_With that in mind, I’m hoping we might keep up a correspondence so we can continue to share our hearts and minds with one another. I’m even toying with modifying a howler so you might hear my voice speaking to you. Do the same?_

_I can’t wait to tell you all about the day’s events in exquisite detail! Expect my next “letter” tomorrow (and don’t be alarmed by its appearance as a howler)!_

_Yours very sincerely,  
Astoria_

 

Dear, sweet Merlin. She’d figured a way to force him to listen to her thin, high drone _via correspondence_.

 

Draco ran his hands through his hair and squeezed his skull. When he looked up, he noticed Granger had received a note of her own and was frowning. Serenely, she lifted the parchment and burned it with an _Incendio_. Draco lifted an eyebrow.

 

As the last of her note disappeared in a wisp of smoke, Granger raised her eyes, and their gazes met. Instead of aggravation or indifference, an odd moment of blind sympathy passed between them.

* * *

“So, how is it going?” Fellowes asked with a tight smile, hands folded atop her desk. When neither Draco nor Hermione spoke, she continued, smile brightening, “It can’t be that bad. No one’s been sacked as a result of failure to meet the contract’s terms.” She glanced down at the aforementioned roll of parchment. 

 

Hermione re-crossed her legs, eager to speak but thinking it best to sulk—as professionally as possible, of course. Out of the corner of her eye, Malfoy sat in the chair beside her, straight and still. 

 

Fellowes’s smile faded. “Perhaps I should start with something more specific, hm? In your opinion, how is this exercise affecting your work performance?”

 

Hermione fidgeted, uncomfortable with the silence and with what she had to say in response to that particular question. She was relieved (and immediately apprehensive all over again) when Draco spoke first.

 

“It’s no secret I’ve always found Granger’s methods to be…less than efficient. I can’t say my mind has changed on that score. In fact, from my perspective, little has changed overall,” he finished, tone even.

 

“That surprises me, Malfoy,” Fellowes remarked, leaning forward. “I’ve gotten some rather good reports from your team members, both in terms of your conduct with them and with the Muggles on-site. Team morale has improved.”

 

Draco’s mouth opened in bewilderment. “Oh. I hadn’t noticed a corresponding improvement in efficiency.” 

 

“Performance isn’t all about efficiency. Attitude and morale matter on their own,” Fellowes explained.

 

Hermione stifled the grin threatening to break the expression of sourness and disapproval she’d been wearing all week long. It felt like the most Herculean of efforts thus far not to respond to Malfoy with a well-earned, “I told you so!”

 

“How about you, Granger?” Fellowes interrupted her internal victory dance.

 

Malfoy turned to her, a touch too eager. Hermione compensated by relaxing into her chair, legs unfolding to cross at the ankles. She shrugged. “No secret here either that I think Malfoy is rude and sacrifices detail for the sake of brevity. Clearly I’m not alone in my opinion, as revealed by this meeting.” 

 

She could practically hear the scoff he must have silenced with every fiber of his being.

 

“However,” she began, hoping it wasn’t too un-Malfoy-like to be so honest, “for the sake of this exercise, which I am taking very seriously and understand is vital to my future in this department, I am compelled to admit that field time for individual jobs has been reduced, as has turnaround on reports.” Hermione looked steadfastly at Fellowes as she delivered this information, loath to catch even a hint of pleasure from Malfoy at this news.

 

“Excellent! Yes, I’d noticed as much.” Fellowes was smiling again, genuinely this time. “Perhaps between the two of your approaches, a happy medium might be reached?”

 

Silence as Hermione stared around Fellowes’s cluttered office in feigned disinterest, and Draco primly examined his nails.

 

Fellowes sighed. “Right then. Other observations related to this exercise? Without going into specific detail, how have your personal lives been affected?”

 

“My mother and the woman I’m dating appear to like me better,” Malfoy offered, voice tight.

 

Hermione’s head whipped round to face him, stunned. A strange feeling began spreading through her stomach, somewhere between pity, anxiety, and confused pleasure. She gave herself a moment to get over the shock, realizing she had to react appropriately. 

 

As in, like an absolute arse.

 

“Of course they do. I don’t know how you have friends or loved ones left at all, behaving as you do,” she remarked bitingly. Her toes tightened in her heels, the only place tension wouldn’t register to others. “What did you do differently?” she couldn’t stop herself asking. She covered for her curiosity by adding, “ _Not_ whinge constantly and insult them if they dared disagree with you?”

 

She saw the muscles in his jaw spasm and flinched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through clenched teeth. Then he raised his chin and pushed his shoulders back, prepared to respond further until Fellowes interrupted him, holding up her hand.

 

“Let’s calm down, shall we?” She looked nervous. As Hermione secretly suspected it would, this whole role-playing business was clearly backfiring.

 

“I am calm,” Malfoy said, and Hermione had to admit he appeared to have collected himself. “As for my mother, I can understand her appreciation of my more overt responsibility-taking, though my family has always been a high priority in my life. And Astoria Greengrass—” his jaw twitched again—“appreciates my improved listening skills.”

 

Hermione was surprised to find anger overtaking the mess of emotions she’d been feeling as Malfoy spoke. Compulsively, she stood.

 

“That’s lovely to hear. Everyone thinks _I’m_ a bitch,” she said quickly and a little too loudly. She thought of the note she’d received from Ron that morning, begging off lunch for the rest of the week.

 

Malfoy stared up at her, a gleam in his grey eyes. Satisfaction, Hermione guessed.

 

“You are permitted to inform others of the exercise, remember,” Fellowes said.

 

“I know. I have.” Hermione balled her fists at her sides. “Which just makes the reactions more hur—infuriating,” she corrected. She looked down at Malfoy, whose gaze had turned inquisitive. Interested. She consciously relaxed her stance, placing one hand on her chair, the other on her hip. “What does it matter? This will be over in two more days. I know the sort of friends I’ve got. The rest can go hang.”

 

A mysterious smile tugged at the corners of Malfoy’s mouth. Hermione wanted to smack it off his face as she had third year at Hogwarts.

 

Fellowes cleared her throat, ending whatever silent battle was being waged between her employees. Each looked up, dazed, as if they’d forgotten about her and why they were all there.

 

“For the record, Granger, I’ve received no complaints regarding your conduct,” she assured Hermione.

 

Nodding, Hermione retook her seat, relieved that her team, at least, was taking circumstances into account.

 

“Moving on, it’s time the both of you dealt with a situation that will truly test your ability to get along and that I hope will fully demonstrate the power of this exercise.” Fellowes paused, waiting for a reaction that never came. She continued, “Up until now, you’ve each been working separately with your teams and, frankly, avoiding one another otherwise. That’s about to change.” Another pause. More silence. “As you know, Isaacs is going on maternity leave beginning next month. You two have the responsibility of finding her temporary replacement. Begin looking for candidates tomorrow.”

 

Hermione thrilled, her excitement such that she was barely able to control the impulse to smile. Her facial muscles twitched, and she grabbed hold of the seat beneath her to keep still. Next to her, Malfoy sat up.

 

“Excellent!” he exclaimed with false enthusiasm. His smile did not reach his eyes and was so clearly fake that Hermione found it uncomfortable and downright insulting to look at. 

 

“One last thing,” Fellowes added with a note of relish. “You will carry out this task together on top of your usual responsibilities. This means you will likely be required to put in some overtime.”

 

“Of course. No problem,” Malfoy immediately responded. “Granger and I will work together to find a more-than-suitable replacement.” At least the fake smile was gone, replaced with fake earnestness. Still, Hermione had to give him an “E” for “Effort,” if not “Exceeds Expectations.”

 

Hermione did her best to imagine Malfoy’s reaction as a(n inadequate) proxy for her own, true feelings as she smirked. “Yes, lucky you have me on this. I’ll make sure we have someone truly qualified.”

 

Fellowes eyed them warily before standing to dismiss them. “Good. Or I’ll be replacing two team leaders instead.”

* * *

**Day Four**

 

Over lunch Thursday, Draco finished his response to Astoria’s first “howler travelogue,” making sure to offer enough detail without being boring (only wishing the favor would be returned) and peppering the letter with references to hers and questions showing his supposed interest. Finishing, he sealed the missive and sent it sailing off to the Ministry owlery.

 

Leaning forward, he let his head fall to his desk with a _thunk_. He’d chosen to stay at the office rather than go home for lunch as usual. He’d grown tired of his parents’ constant questions about the exercise and work in general. Honestly, their concern was wearying. He’d always thought it was what he wanted: his parents doting on him and only him, no Dark Lord, no post-war worries, just _him_ and his life, showing how important he was to them. Just like when he was a child.

 

Instead it was rather annoying. _Cloying._ What he really wanted, he realized, was to be left alone. To _live_ alone and do as he pleased, for him, as his mother had recognized.

 

He sat up, shaking his head as if to clear it, and thought about the rest of the day. Granger-like, he had approached the woman herself immediately after the mid-week meeting the day before to discuss how and when to handle their new task. They’d agreed to go ahead and prepare to stay after the regular work day today to discuss qualifications for the position and to do a preliminary round of eliminations based on those qualifications.

 

“I can’t fucking wait,” Draco muttered to himself, glancing around the large, empty office space. His eyes stopped on Granger’s neatly organized desk. His own was just as neat.

 

It had been amusing watching her idea of him up-close at the meeting and to know the exercise was mucking up her personal life as badly as it was his. And admitting the efficiency of his methods could not have been very pleasant for her. 

 

Of course none of her team members dared break ranks and complain about her “bitchy” behavior (nor, apparently, had anyone encountered in the field felt the need). Hermione Granger would have to use an Unforgivable to lose her reputation. Draco shook his head. What utter bollocks.

 

Still, he was satisfied if her friends—the people who were supposed to stick by her through anything, the people with whom she had indeed already been through a war—were finding her so offensive. Her reaction had been fascinating; clearly she’d been hurt and covered it with anger and a sense of faith she didn’t feel. She’d _lied_ , which might be explained by the role-play, but Draco didn’t think so. There’d been a defiance beneath the hurt, itself masked by false anger. Unexpected.

 

She was surprising him. _Definitely_ unexpected.

 

Also unexpected was the knowledge that Fellowes had been receiving positive reports on his own behavior and that she hadn’t cared about a lack of improvement in the realm of efficiency. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or resentful. Therefore, he chose not to think about the matter at all.

 

He would also not think about how unpleasant it had been to reveal how favorably his mother and Astoria had been responding to him, nor Granger’s confusing reaction. She’d looked…sympathetic? How thoroughly revolting.

 

Her barely contained look of fury as he’d grinned at her in response to the false front she’d put up regarding her personal life had made up for it, though. He could tell she’d wanted to slap him as she had when they were kids. She always acted like she was so mature when really she was just as petty as he was.

 

Because Draco was self-aware enough to recognize the smug, self-centered arse in himself. 

 

It just wasn’t all he was or could be.

* * *

“Ron’s an arse, you know that,” Ginny shrugged off Hermione’s concerns, patting her arm. “It’s why you broke up.”

 

“Part of the reason,” Hermione corrected. “And as you know, we’re still friends and, er, everything. Or we were. Arse.”

 

“Yes, the whole ‘with benefits’ thing. I told you that was a bad idea.” Ginny sipped her tea and polished off another of the petit fours. They’d met at Hermione’s flat for an “emergency lunch,” as Hermione had put it the night before during a firecall. “Also, don’t you think Malfoy would not use the euphemism ‘everything’ for ‘shagging’?”

 

“Sod off, Weaselette,” Hermione scowled before breaking into a grin.

 

Ginny laughed. “I have to admit—and I hope this doesn’t make you feel worse—but acting like Malfoy makes you very amusing.”

 

“You’re the first to think so, trust me,” Hermione grumbled.

 

“Come off it, Hermione. Confess: there must have been some moment during the week where you found it fun.” Ginny raised an eyebrow, a devilish smirk on her freckled face.

 

Hermione’s smirk mirrored Ginny’s. She was so glad she’d gone to her, so relieved to have someone being supportive. To be fair, she hadn’t seen much of Harry since that night with Ron. They’d all passed each other in the halls of the Ministry, as always, but had scurried off to their respective offices with merely a wave. Just as at Hogwarts, Hermione suspected when two of them were at odds, the third was left struggling in the middle.

 

“You know the Seeker for the Cannons?”

 

“Barkley? Unfortunately. Complete tosser,” Ginny affirmed.

 

Hermione nodded, feeling even better knowing the man was apparently a git full-time. “He chased a rogue Snitch into a Muggle schoolyard then acted like he’d done nothing wrong.”

 

“Git,” Ginny rolled her eyes.

 

“Exactly. Which is why when he said I was being too rude for a war heroine and threatened to take away Ron’s season tickets, I threatened him in turn with spreading the rumor that he’s got Inflammata Pox on his bits,” she finished gleefully.

 

Ginny nearly choked on her tea. When she’d regained her breath, she laughed properly. “Nice work.”

 

“I’d never do that, of course. Not after all that rubbish with Rita Skeeter back at Hogwarts, but the important thing was that he believed I would. And I’m quite sure he did.”

 

“You total bitch,” Ginny said with a grin. The grin quickly vanished as she took in Hermione’s crumpling features.

 

“Gin, what if I damage my reputation?” she looked helplessly at her friend, tears at the corners of her eyes. She snuffled, trying to get hold of herself. At least the contract allowed for involuntary reactions.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Hermione, I didn’t mean—I was just joking, yeah?” Ginny put her arm around her and squeezed. “Your boss said you’d had no complaints, right?”

 

Hermione nodded and rubbed at her nose with a tissue Ginny handed her. She stood abruptly, straightening her clothes. “Time to go back to work. Otherwise I’d take advantage of this situation.” She gave Ginny a mock-lecherous look. Her friend laughed.

 

They walked to the Floo. “I’ll take my chances,” Ginny winked, giving her a quick hug.

 

Hermione gave her most flirtatious, crooked smile. “Going to tell your boyfriend I came on to you?”

 

Ginny shrugged. “Only as incentive if he says he’s ‘too tired’ later.”

 

Hermione shook her head in amusement. “Slag,” she said. What she wanted to say was, “Thank you. I love you, my friend.”

* * *

The work day ended along with any semblance of good humor Draco might have been holding onto. As pre-arranged, he and Granger met on neutral ground: the “situation room” where the entire team met in the case of emergencies and large-scale jobs. Granger had arrived first, Draco having last been sent to take care of a tricky incident in the field involving a Muggle government official who’d somehow got himself involved with a prostitute a little too incautious with her contraceptive wandwork. 

 

The real task had turned out to be prying the witch’s (long-nailed) fingers off Draco’s own precious person, and in the end he’d had to Obliviate her as well when she’d become a little too keen upon realizing Draco’s identity. It was a phenomenon he had grudgingly grown used to immediately following the war when trying to date: Death Eater fetishists. 

 

“What happened to you?” Granger asked as he stormed into the room, his clothes still askew from the witch’s pawing.

 

“Nothing,” he said with false cheer and a false smile, tossing his field notebook on the rectangular table near the back that Granger had chosen. He practically ripped his outer robes off when he got tangled in the process of removing them and grit his teeth as he noted Granger’s small smile of amusement. As he finished struggling and collapsed into the chair across from her, she swiped his notebook before he had a chance to do anything but squawk his protest.

 

“A prostitute, eh? I suppose that accounts for the delay, though not your crap mood. Did she charge too much? Or is it that she wasn’t willing to give you a freebie?” Granger’s smile was broad and sweet.

 

Draco’s blood boiled in what he assumed must be anger. There could be no possible alternative explanation for the heat rising in his face. “That’s disgusting,” he spat.

 

“Oh, right,” she replied. “You’re dating Astoria Greengrass.” She said the name grandly and with an elaborate wave of her hand. “Get into her knickers yet?”

 

Draco gripped the edge of the table, ready to launch himself across it. _He would not throttle a woman. He would not throttle a woman._ “That’s none of your business,” he said through clenched teeth. His jaw ached.

 

“That’s a ‘no’ then.” Granger sat back and propped her bare feet up on the chair between them, skirt riding up to reveal the long length of her legs. Draco stared a moment before blinking out of his daze.

 

“Apparently it’s better than you’re doing,” he shot back, raising his chin as he’d seen her do a hundred times before. “Haven’t seen anything in the papers about your love life since you and Weasley split.”

 

She shrugged. “Harry, Ron, and I have learned to leak certain things every so often as distractions so they’ll leave us alone other times. Generally it works. For instance, they have no idea that Ron and I have continued to shag.”

 

Draco shifted in his chair and slid his notebook out from under her grasp as he took in this information. “So you’re not broken up?” he asked, entirely because he figured a know-it-all like Granger would insist upon knowing. He in _no way_ cared who she was shagging and why.

 

“We are.” She rubbed her feet together idly. “But we’re still close friends. Who shag. Or we _were_ until this week when he couldn’t handle my ‘blunt’ attitude. Or, I should say, _your_ attitude.” Remarkably, Draco could not detect one note of accusation in her tone. Then again, he may have been too busy re-evaluating his opinion of Granger as a conservative prude.

 

“I’m…surprised you’d have such an arrangement,” he confessed, stowing his notebook and withdrawing a folder full of applications from his briefcase. 

 

Granger snorted. “I’m not surprised you’re surprised. It’s obvious you think I’m nothing but a stuck-up tight-arse. Of course, we hardly know each other, really. I suppose what we’ve been doing this week is playing caricatures of one another.”

 

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that. He looked down at the folder of applications and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should get started.”

 

“Right.” She reached down by her side and came back up with a bottle of firewhiskey. “I thought this might help.”

 

Draco looked at her dubiously. “I’m quite sure that’s against Ministry policy, Granger.”

 

“I’m sure, too,” she agreed before taking a swig straight from the bottle. She held it out for him. “C’mon, Malfoy. It’ll make forgetting your bad day a whole lot easier. I promise I won’t tell,” she added in a sing-song voice.

 

He folded his arms. “How do you know _I_ won’t?”

 

She set the bottle down, a strange gleam in her eyes and a crooked smile on her lips. “You know, you’re sort of adorable when you’re pretending to be me. Or your version of me, all proper and regulatory. As if I never ran round Hogwarts with Ron and Harry breaking rules and nearly dying constantly.”

 

_While never getting in trouble and coming out a hero,_ Draco thought peevishly. He dismissed the bit about her finding him “adorable” as condescending. Anyway, he was _always_ attractive. 

 

Hastily, he grabbed the firewhiskey and swallowed some, appreciative of the burn. “There, happy? Now can we get on with it so we can both get home at a decent hour?”

 

Smile never leaving her face, Granger tossed back some more drink before getting to her feet. “Fine. Not that you’ve got a hot date to get to. Unless you’re cheating on Astoria.”

 

Momentarily distracted by Granger’s cleavage as she leaned over to slide Draco’s folder across the table, he did not immediately process her words. Once he had, he, too, got to his feet. “Pardon me, but how do you know that? I mean, how would you know I haven’t got a date with Astoria?” He took another swig of firewhiskey as if it would spite her.

 

She snorted. “Please. Those howlers are so loud half the office knows about Astoria’s travels.” She opened the folder and began spreading applications around.

 

“I can’t stand her,” Draco confessed suddenly, sitting back down. _Fuck, was he pissed already?_ He brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips; he may as well be able to feel it.

 

Granger paused in her perusal of the applications. “Yes, actually listening to one’s date is hard,” she said dryly. She reached for the firewhiskey and practically had to pry it out of his hands.

 

Draco scowled. He watched Granger swallow some liquor as he thought. “I don’t—I think it depends on the person. Astoria…the moment she realized I was listening, it was like she took advantage. She has _no sense_ of what might be interesting or what the other person might have to say. It’s bloody _infuriating_. We were getting along fine before…” he trailed off, meeting her eyes.

 

“Before this week. Before you pretended to be like me,” Granger finished for him. She sighed dramatically. “Life is hard when it isn’t all about you.” Her voice was sarcasm-laden, and Draco flushed. Before he could retort, she continued, “Maybe Astoria—” She stopped abruptly, looking frustrated.

 

“‘Maybe Astoria’ what?” he urged, forgetting her sarcasm, genuinely interested.

 

She shook her head, thick hair coming out of its loose tie at the back. “Let’s just do what we’re here to do. I’m getting hungry.” She gestured toward the piles of applications. 

 

“No. Tell me,” he demanded.

 

She put a hand on her hip and faced him. “Maybe it’s a lesson Astoria still needs to learn, that the world doesn’t revolve around her. Maybe she’s still the stuck-up, self-centered arsehole you were at Hogwarts.” Granger’s face was pink, but she held his gaze, voice steady.

 

Draco stood once again, obviously too quickly since he felt a bit dizzy, and mimicked her stance with both hands on his hips. “And maybe you’re enjoying being that arsehole a bit too much, eh, Granger?” He grabbed the liquor bottle from where she’d set it on the table, listening to the whiskey swish around inside.

 

Dropping her arm, a disturbingly calm, sly smile stole over her placid features. She stepped around the chair next to him, getting right in his face. He saw flecks of mascara beneath her eyes, a slight smear of pink lipstick at the corner of her lips. He saw she had two shades of brown in her eyes, the lighter color threaded through the darker, both being swallowed by her pupils, which were growing large. He swallowed.

 

“Right now I am,” she said. Her voice was low, and Draco felt her breath on his face, warm and smoky from the firewhiskey. “Enjoying a taste of your own medicine, Malfoy?”

 

He huffed, grasp on the bottle grown slick with sweat. “I’m weathering it better than your so-called friends, apparently. Interesting, isn’t it?” Her proximity and the alcohol were making it difficult for him to sort his reactions from hers.

 

“Not really.” Her eyes roamed his face curiously, as if she’d never looked at him before. “Ron’s just being Ron. And Harry and Ginny find me-as-you rather amusing, actually.”

 

“I suppose the idea of you being inconsiderate and pissing people off has its charms for some.” He tried looking down his nose at her, but she was so close it was awkward.

 

“Not for Roland Barkley,” she chuckled and proceeded to tell him about her run-in with the Cannons Seeker on the job.

 

Draco lost the battle to maintain his Granger-typical composure, the alcohol not helping matters, and broke into a silly grin. “I’m impressed. _And_ jealous. I would have given anything to tell off that git myself. He’s said some very rude things about my family in the press after we’ve shown up at matches. Wish I’d have seen it.” He started when he felt Granger’s hand on the firewhiskey bottle. She slid it to the side and away, sitting up on the table in its place.

 

“Yeah?” He could tell her smile of pleasure was genuine.

 

“Hermione Granger threatening rumours of venereal disease? Oh, yes,” he breathed, forgetting himself. Forgetting the contract. 

 

Granger stood again and came round to face him, and Draco found himself with his back to the desk, the edge of it hitting him just beneath his bum. Something was happening, the air between them charged. Draco glanced toward the door to the room; it was closed, their desk at the back hidden from the view of the main office. When he looked back down at Granger, her eyes were dark and glinting, her smile turned mischievous. She put one hand on her hip and brought the other up to his shoulder.

 

“Do you like bad girls, Draco?”

* * *

“I—what?” Malfoy laughed nervously in response to Hermione’s question and tried to back up, climbing on the desk behind him. There was something so charming and coquettish about it, it sent a little thrill surging through her belly. She swiftly stepped between his legs, left hand rising to claim his other shoulder.

 

“Or maybe you just like…you,” she said, leaning in, her breasts brushing his chest, their mouths centimeters apart.

 

Hermione didn’t know when she’d decided to seduce him (perhaps after a third healthy pull of whiskey?), but she had, and it was going to happen. She marveled at how _easy_ Malfoy was becoming, how off she’d thrown him with her banter and vulgarity—her _Malfoyness_.

 

After visiting with Ginny, she’d vowed to embrace the remaining day or so of “Malfoy time” she had left, especially since she knew that that early evening would be spent with the man himself. He’d made it clear he enjoyed the prospect of her being a prat to others, and the anticipation of unleashing him upon himself continued to grow throughout the rest of her work day.

 

The firewhiskey was a bit of inspired genius, if she did say so herself.

 

Interacting with a bedraggled, grumpy—and now drunk—Malfoy who was channeling his bad mood into some prudish, extreme do-gooder version of herself turned out to be unexpectedly endearing, especially in her current state of mind, which was unflappable.

 

His heart pounded beneath her forearm, his breath coming fast, brows knitted in inebriated confusion. She supposed she should help him out.

 

“I am doing my best to act as you would. Therefore, short of Polyjuice…well, it’s no wonder you find me attractive now. It’s narcissism without the unfortunate drowning.” Her left hand trailed from his shoulder to his neck. His skin was so warm; it was flushed but clear. It looked soft, too.

 

He jumped a bit at her touch and licked his lips. “I don’t find you attractive, Granger,” he said, voice hushed, but his legs tightened around her a fraction.

 

“Denial. Not a surprise.” She shrugged and dropped both hands to his legs, stroking the tops of his trouser-clad thighs gently. “It just makes me want to work even harder to prove you wrong.” Sliding her hands up to his waist, she grasped his crisp white shirt and brought her mouth to his, kissing him suddenly and firmly. At first he didn’t respond, but he didn’t push her away either, and soon he was moving his mouth against hers.

 

She broke the kiss sooner than she honestly wanted to and took pleasure in the dazed look in Malfoy’s eyes, most of which had little to do with alcohol. 

 

“This is confusing,” he murmured.

 

“I know,” she confessed, and she meant it. She rubbed her lips together as if she’d just applied lip gloss and tasted a hint of firewhiskey and a hint of him. She loosened his legs from around her, unsurprised but delighted to feel he’d grown hard. She pulled him to his feet, then turned them and guided him to sit in his chair, where he made to nonchalantly cross his legs as if he could disguise his erection from her.

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chided. “Too late.” She bent, loose curls falling in a curtain around her face. “You tart, Malfoy,” she teased, “Getting hard from one kiss.”

 

“Granger!” he protested, starting to rise. She pushed him back down.

 

“Stop pretending you don’t like it,” she said, maintaining the teasing tone. She took out her wand, and Malfoy eyed her warily. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to clear up some confusion.” If anything, he looked even less confident. Before he could verbalize his worry, she made some precise movements with her wand and spoke a few words. Malfoy’s eyes boggled at the incantation before the change even took effect.

 

Hermione grinned at the sight of Malfoy in the pink blouse and brown skirt she’d been wearing, his knobby knees clamping shut instantly. She herself was now clothed in the dark trousers and white oxford he’d been sporting. Much more comfortable.

 

Malfoy could do nothing more than gape and wriggle in his seat, so clearly shocked and appalled he had yet to process the anger that was sure to reveal itself to Hermione soon.

 

“Be glad I didn’t wear nylons today,” she winked. She leaned down and placed one hand back on his shoulder, the other on his knee. She’d best head off his anger.

 

“Now we know who we are,” she said simply. Deftly, she slipped the hand on his knee beneath the skirt and between his legs, the flesh there hot, muscles taut. 

 

He gasped. “Fuck, Granger!” His legs clamped down on her hand, trapping it.

 

“Now, Malfoy, open up. We’re not even at the fun part yet.” She kissed him, taking advantage of his surprise and outrage to lick just inside his lips, and he groaned, tongue sneaking out to touch hers. She took it as an invitation and took control of the kiss, exploring his hot, wet mouth and stroking his soft, firm tongue rhythmically. When his legs went lax, she moved her hand up the inside of his thigh, feeling the silk lining of the skirt against the back of her hand and the sparse hairs beneath her palm. Finally, she reached the satin of the knickers she’d been wearing (charitably re-sized) and traced the outline of his stiff cock trapped beneath the fabric.

 

Malfoy bucked into her hand and moaned into her mouth. The sound and the feel of him went straight to her own sex; had she still been wearing the knickers, they’d have been soaked. As it was, Malfoy’s boxers were a bit too loose, even re-sized.

 

_“Fuck,”_ he breathed against her mouth when she pulled back at last. His grey eyes were even more glazed than before, darkened with undisguised lust.

 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Hermione smirked. “You see? We’re not so different.” She manipulated him through the knickers a bit more, squeezing his hard flesh and stroking idly but firmly. She could feel that he didn’t quite fit into the underwear, that the tip of his prick poked out at the waistband, and the discovery sent a new twinge of arousal pulsing between her legs.

 

“This is…this is so…” Malfoy mumbled dazedly, his gaze locked with hers, completely gone.

 

“I know,” she agreed for the second time that night. She reluctantly let go of him and pulled her hand away, standing up fully and reaching for her waist to undo the belt and fly of the trousers, never breaking eye contact. Malfoy sat there, breathing heavily, skirt disheveled, lips puffy and red from their snogging. Hermione had never thought much about cross-dressing as a kink before; she certainly had never had the desire to see Ron in a skirt or dress or lingerie. But seeing Malfoy like this, in her clothes… _Malfoy_ , whom she’d always found loathsome rather than attractive… She’d think about it another time, when she wasn’t a bit drunk and pretending to be him, sort of, and when she wasn’t out of her mind with desire.

 

She resolutely shoved the trousers down and stepped out of them, followed by the boxers, leaving herself naked from the waist down, the hem of the oxford doing little to cover her. Malfoy’s eyes left hers to stare between her thighs, and she took a step closer, trailing a finger down her body to her pussy, exploring its slick, sensitive folds, barely brushing her clit and gasping as she did so. She watched Malfoy watch her, his tongue sneaking out to lick his lips, and she slipped two fingers inside herself, smiling at both the sensation of her tight passage and the sight of Malfoy transfixed. She withdrew the fingers and held them up before his mouth, lightly coating his lips with her juices. 

 

“How do I taste?” she asked, voice husky. She expected him to lick his lips and was surprised when he took her fingers into his mouth, sucking and licking at them hungrily.

 

“Oh!” she gasped, feeling herself growing wetter. He hummed around her fingers, and she replaced them with her mouth, their tongues twisting, sharing her taste. She groped for his hand and brought it to her pussy, crying out when he wasted no time sliding two of his own longer fingers into her and pumping them slowly. She panted against his mouth a moment before standing, peering down at him as he began manipulating her clit with his thumb.

 

“Ah!” She threw her head back, closing her eyes against the bright overhead lights.

 

“Granger, _Granger_ ,” she heard him whisper, and she looked back down to find him watching his fingers as they pulsed in and out of her sex. She could see his erection tenting the skirt and grabbed for her wand, Vanishing it. Startled, he looked down at himself, pausing his ministrations. She took hold of his wrist and pulled away from him, following his gaze to take in the sight of his cock stretching the satiny knickers, the head exposed.

 

“I’ve always wanted to have sex in the office. Always imagined someone taking me from behind on my desk, though,” she breathed, still staring.

 

“That can be arranged,” he said, reaching for her. She smacked his hands away and knelt at his feet, pulling the knickers down and off with his assistance.

 

“No, you’re not the one in control here,” she said firmly. She parted his legs and took hold of his cock, giving it a long swipe of her tongue from root to tip. He whimpered and raised his hips eagerly, and she inhaled his scent, musky and clean. She wrapped her lips around the head and tongued his slit, tasting bitter pre-come, then lowered her head, taking in more of him. 

 

“Oh fuck, fuck,” he babbled as she sucked and licked and glanced up at him through the veil of her hair. Sensing she’d better stop before their encounter ended prematurely, she gave the head of his cock a little kiss and stood, immediately moving to straddle him. She reached behind herself for her wand and quickly cast the contraceptive charm.

 

As she turned back to him, Malfoy brought his hands to the oxford and began unbuttoning it. Smiling wolfishly she grasped the neck of her pink blouse and wrenched it open, the buttons flying everywhere. She could always repair it later. Or not; it hadn’t been a favorite, something a cousin had gotten her the previous Christmas.

 

Malfoy’s chest was narrow and pale, his nipples pink and peaked. She raked her nails down it while she waited for him to finish with the oxford, fascinated by the red marks she left behind. 

 

She hoped there would be more marks soon.

 

She felt the shirt fall open and shrugged it off, her body so hot she barely noticed the normally chilly temperature of the office. Malfoy tentatively raised a hand to her breast, and she clamped her own hand over his, guiding him to cup her fully then toy with her nipples as she liked. Soon she was writhing in his lap, his cock nestled against her groin, and she went in for a kiss, hungry and messy and perfect. She clawed at his shoulders and bent to suck at the spot where his jugular beat frantically against his neck. He groaned and grabbed at her hips, thrusting up along her wet slit.

 

Satisfied she’d left a mark, Hermione ran her fingers through his white-blonde hair, pulling his head back, and looked into his eyes. “So you _are_ attracted to me?” she smirked.

 

She saw a flash of Malfoy anger in his eyes, but it was easily overcome by desire. “What do _you_ think?” he asked, giving another small nudge with his cock.

 

“I think I want to hear you say you want this,” she insisted.

 

He bit his lip, heat of more than one kind in his gaze. “I want this, just like you do.”

 

She chuckled lowly. “Well-played, Malfoy.” 

 

Rising up slightly, she took him in hand and lowered herself onto his cock, reveling in the heat and hardness of him, the fullness as her arse came to rest on his thighs once again with him seated fully inside her. They’d both cried out, both refused to look away. Malfoy gripped her hips so hard she was sure he’d leave his own mark.

 

Toes just reaching the floor, Hermione began to move atop him, rising and falling, angling and undulating her hips so her clit would brush his abdomen just right. She started out slow then sped up, knowing the mind games and foreplay (if there was a difference) had already brought them very close to their breaking points. They grunted, moaned, gasped, muttered each other’s names. They clutched, clawed, squeezed, and grabbed at one another. Sweat sheened their bodies, slickened their movements against one another.

 

“I’m close,” he panted, face scrunched up in concentration and pained pleasure.

 

“Me, too, just a little more,” she said between breaths. “Don’t you dare…” She pulled at his hair, and he winced, taking the hint. A cord of tension was coiling tighter and tighter inside her, and she chased it, thighs straining with the effort, heart thundering, the brink of something that felt like it might break her into a million happy, glowing pieces about to be crossed. 

 

And then Malfoy was bringing a shaky hand to her clit, rubbing, flicking, pinching. “Of course you need my help,” he said smugly.

 

“You bast—ah!” she broke off as she came, riding her orgasm helplessly, inner walls clamping down and pulsing around his cock. She felt him throb inside her as he quickly followed, stilling and swearing.

 

Malfoy slumped forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder as they both regained their breath, heartbeats slowing. She was surprised to feel him wrap his arms around her and hold her close, but she let him, muscles too shaky to protest. She really had to start running and weight training again.

 

“Cuddling, Malfoy? Never figured you for the type,” she said when she’d sufficiently recovered.

 

He shrugged and released her. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Thought you probably were.”

 

“Ah,” she acknowledged, neither confirming nor denying. She carefully got to her feet and retrieved Malfoy’s shirt from the floor, easing into it and starting on the buttons.

 

“That’s mine, I believe.”

 

“I believe, too. Here.” She tossed him his boxers and trousers. “I like this shirt.” She stepped into her knickers and stuffed the torn blouse into her bag. With a wave of her wand, she sent the buttons flying through the air to join the other articles of clothing. With another wave, she’d cleaned herself up.

 

“What am I supposed to do about—” She handed him his robes before he could finish then got into her own, sans Vanished skirt.

 

“Fellowes knows we’ll need more than a day, so we’ll just have to do this again tomorrow, yes?” Hermione smiled and gestured at the applications still spread across the table.

 

Malfoy had shrugged into his robes. “By ‘this’ you mean…?” He raised an eyebrow.

 

“I do mean work, although this wasn’t bad,” she grinned slyly, and Malfoy’s lip quirked. “However, we don’t want to further put our jobs in jeopardy, do we?”

 

“No, we don’t,” he confirmed. “And this?” He picked up the half-empty bottle of firewhiskey.

 

“Stash it in that empty filing cabinet over there. Maybe we’ll want some more sometime.”

 

He nodded. She came back around the table and stepped up close, bringing her hands up to fix his hair. “You’re always making sure your hair is neat,” she explained.

 

“Thanks,” he said simply. His gaze was steady, open.

 

“Good night then, Malfoy.” She turned to leave.

 

“Granger.”

 

She turned back. “Yes?”

 

He looked at his hands. She thought about all they had just touched.

 

“Perhaps we should get to know one another. So we don’t see each other as caricatures anymore, as you put it.”

 

She leaned against the doorframe for a beat, as if she had to consider. “All right,” she said simply. She saw pleasure relieve the tension in his posture.

 

As she headed for the Floo, Hermione thought to herself there might be more role-playing past Friday in their future.


End file.
